


Complicated

by Justbeyourself205



Series: Danger Days: The True Lives Of The Fabulous KillJoys [3]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: F/M, Smut, Wow, why not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 19:38:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12966891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justbeyourself205/pseuds/Justbeyourself205
Summary: You and Party Poison's relationship is.. complicated.





	Complicated

Party Poison has been shot twice. And he wasn't exactly happy about it. You could tell he didn't like to show that he was in pain or really show any type of weakness at all. Still, seeing him down on the ground, hand over the wound on his lower right side, was painful for even you. As much as you absolutely hated him, you cared about him at the same time.

You're the first one to reach him, Jet Star not long after. You bite your lip as you notice the blood on his shoulder as well. Then you're being pulled away by Fun Ghoul, moved out of the way so Jet and Kobra Kid could help him. You grip onto Ghoul's jacket, looking over the many bodies of Dracs on the ground.

Ghoul's voice is in your ear, reassuring you that it's fine, that it's not life threatening. You squeezed your eyes shut, you'd seen so many killjoys get ghosted by Dracs. You'd always hoped none of the Fabulous Killjoys would get shot. Of course, you don't always get what you want. And the blood. Wound's usually didn't bleed, cauterized immediately, but he seemed to have been hit just right.

And that left the opportunity for infection. You gripped Ghoul's jacket, steadying yourself when your head spun. So many dangerous questions circled through your mind. You were completely numb when he pulled you along with him. You only half noticed Kobra and Jet helping Party along ahead of you. The leading three got in the back seat of the old Trans-am. Party most definitely wasn't happy about this, his mouth pressed thin.

Ghoul drove, much better at it than you, speeding towards the old diner the five of you called home. You were biting your lip, gripping the sides of your skinny jeans nervously. _Even the Fabulous Four can die._ You hadn't really thought about it. When the four of you are yelling the lyrics to songs or going on an important mission assigned by Dr. Death Defying, you didn't bother to.

You'd only been with the Fabulous Four for a few months. Death? Not an option. And it was silent. Quieter than usual. There was no happy chatter in the background or bragging about the way one of you shot a Drac. No, it was dead silent. It was like you were waiting for something.

The others had known Party for years, you'd felt alone at first. You didn't get all their inside jokes or the fact that they laughed as soon as they made eye contact with each other. But you learned to quit caring. And they had your back.

How had he even been shot anyway? Once was easy to explain but twice? What was so important that he'd be shot?

Then the car was slowing, having already driven through the few zones when you were lost in your thoughts. You fumbled with the door for a second when the Trans-am had fully stopped next to the diner. Your hands were shaky and your palms sweaty.

Then you were out, numbly holding the door open for the three in the back. After a struggle, they were all heading to the diner. Party grimaced when you slammed the door a little too hard and bit out a sharp, "Careful."

You hummed in reply, falling in step with Ghoul. The two of you went ahead to hold open the dirty but unbroken glass doors. His hand rested firmly on your lower back, anchoring you.

Party is put in the small room where you all slept. It had no windows, making it one of the safest and warmest rooms. He was leaned against the wall, letting his head fall back. His bright red hair was a mess at this point.

Jet fetched his medical supplies and the room was still silent as he bandaged his shoulder and side. Finally Party looked up from what Jet was doing and to his younger brother Kobra, "Get some sleep, I'll be fine."

The blonde seemed to consider it and when Party raised his eyebrows, he went and grabbed a blanket out of the corner of the room. As hot as it was during the day, it got freezing at night. Ghoul's warm hand was still on your back when he said, "You too sweetheart."

You raised your eyebrows at the name but was too drained to say anything. You grabbed the thickest blanket in the pile and curled up next to Kobra, who was extremely warm beside you. You drifted asleep to the sound of Party complaining that he'd been shot.

* * *

You woke up alone except for a certain red head still leaned against the wall asleep. He was usually the first up, the blood loss must have really taken it's toll. You wondered if you should wake him up, if it's healthy for him to be sleeping so long.

You didn't, getting up quietly. The others were in the main room, coffees in hands. Jokes and smiles were everywhere and you were glad it wasn't like the night before. You were given a coffee and a smile by Jet, and then a light pat on the head by Kobra.

Ghoul shot you a wink when you looked at him for a morning greeting, "Sleeping beauty's not up yet?"

You took a sip of your drink, "No, still fast asleep."

Kobra spoke, "We've got to go to Dr. Death's for supplies, can you watch him?"

You shrugged, "I guess, he's just sleeping."

Jet smiled, "Okay then, we'll be back in a few hours." The others got up at the obvious hint that it was time to go. "Maybe check his bandages when he wakes up.. if he'll let you."

You take another sip, "I doubt it but okay."

Ghoul had a huge grin on his face and you felt suspicion rising inside of you. He grabbed his mask, giving you a light pat on the arm as he walked out after the other two. You watched them go, biting your lip.

When they were out of sight, you sighed, drumming your fingers on the side of the glass mug. Then you turned, walking in the room you were previously in, to see Party stretching. You flinched, seeing the blood still on his shoulder and side.

You walk back out, grabbing a fresh pair of clothes for him and a new shirt for you since yours was so torn up. Of course for him you chose those tight leather black skinny jeans that you loved to see him in. You go back in the room, inwardly realizing you'd just been walking in and out all morning.

You'd never been left alone in the small room with him. And he was glaring at you, the tension thick enough to not only cut with a knife but serve for dessert lightly chilled. For the longest moment, neither of you says anything. He watches you until curiosity finally gets the better of anger. "Why on earth are you just standing there?"

"I got you a pair of clean clothes," You inform him coolly. You knows he's upset, you knows he's hurt, but you're still not intending to sit here and be completely nice to him, especially if he is doing his stubborn-ass routine, "Take off your shirt."

He arches an eyebrow at you in a way that clearly says he has about a hundred comments to make here, but will, for the moment, charitably forbear. He throws his mask to the side and shrugs off his famous dark blue jacket with a grunt of pain, and then lifts up his shirt, struggling to get it over his head. Then he looks at you defiantly. As if to say, here he is. Take or leave him.

You can't help glancing at him sidelong as you reach for the shirt you'd picked out for him. He has plenty of scars that must have come from before you'd known him. You notice multiple straight scars, one after another, down his wrists. Your eyes trace over the breadth of his shoulders, the heavy muscles of his arms, the solidness of his chest and the slight jut of his hipbones. The bullet wounds are covered by bandages, exactly where the blood had been on his shirt.

You glance at him, as if to say that you will unavoidably have to come closer, and he flicks an insolent look at you, but doesn't protest. You walk up to him, about to hand him the shirt but then you realize you'd been told to check the bandages, which were soaked with blood.

You think you can manage putting on new bandages. Screw it, you can most definitely put bandages on, you'd done it so many times. You just don't know if you're mentally prepared for the memories that'd return. You open your mouth, close it, then open it again, "Do you want me to put on..?" You gesture towards the wound, having lost your ability to speak for the time being.

He raises his eyebrows, "Can you?"

You clench your fists, "Yes, I can, I'm not fucking useless."

He shrugs then lets out a hiss of pain immediately at the action. You wince slightly at that, grabbing the medical kit still next to him, "This is just temporary, the guys have gone to Dr. Death's to get more supplies."

He makes a face, "And left me alone with you? If any Dracs come we're going to be dead in ten seconds."

You said it before you could stop yourself, "At least I didn't get shot.. twice."

He furrows his eyebrows, "I was distracted." You sit in front of him, reaching around him to start unwrapping the bandage. Despite your struggling to reach, he didn't bother to move for you, "That's your fault."

"How so?" You finally get it, bringing the bandage the opposite way it was wrapped.

Now he moved for you, "You were being fucking distracting, I've never seen anyone dodge that many bullets without getting hit."

You shrug, getting the bandage off completely while being less than gentle. You wince at the sight of the wound, "You've seen me fight tons of times."

You realized now how close you are. His voice, if possible, gets quieter, "Not like that."

You push a clean piece of gauze to it, he sucks in his breath slightly but is too stubborn to show other obvious discomfort. You wonder suddenly where he grew up. You barely knew anything about him. There is so much of who this man is, who he used to be, that is so burned and buried far beneath, this wreck of him, nothing left but the promise of vengeance, the fading dream of solace. Of rightness. Of happiness. Of goodness. Of ease.

He shifts and grunts as you push on it a little harder than you meant to. Then you grab the bandages and he looks at you expectantly. How many times had been given that look by someone hurt? How many times have you been unable to save them?

You have to look away, light-headed at the thoughts racing in your head. What if he dies? And he notices your reaction, "You don't like doing this, do you?"

"No, I've done it enough times to know it usually doesn't end well." You try to keep your tone matter-of-fact, but you remember the last time you did this and your voice trembles slightly. You can taste bile in the back of your throat, and swallow hard. "I'm not really cut out for adventures outside of books."

"And yet," He says, with something either mockery or sincerity. It's always so hard to tell with him. "Here you are."

"Not that I had a choice." Right, you can do this. One more hard gulp, and you get back to the task at hand. You begin wrapping it gently, taking great care to do it right. Maybe he'll live, you know he wants to, and he doesn't give up on things easily. He didn't give up on you.

It's silent when you do this, your words hanging in the air heavily. And then you're done with this bandage, going to take off the other one before you can think more about it. This one seems to take a lot longer than the last one. But when you see this wound, you're relieved to see it was just a simple graze.

You press gauze on it and he lets out a slight hiss through his teeth. The corner of your mouth twitches at the sound as you try not to apologize. Once it's mostly stopped bleeding, you grab the bandages again.

"Well," Party breaks the silence, "At least we found you."

Sarcasm leaked into your voice, "Yeah, because you totally saved me." You stop what you were doing, "You're not always the hero, you know. And, technically, I found you."

"Well," He adds almost casually, "at least I didn't let Ghoul become my fuckboy."

You flinch slightly at the venom in his voice. "I've never even fucked Fr- Ghoul," you corrected yourself before you said his actual name, "Quit being such an asshole all the time and maybe, I wouldn't absolutely hate you."

"What if I want you to hate me! What if I don't care?"

"Then..." You doesn't feel up to arguing anymore, "Then our relationship is.. complicated." Complicated. The best you could come up with is complicated? And you know he's going to point it out.

"Complicated," He repeats, with cold, bitter contempt. "Our relationship isn't complicated, it's bad. Things are always complicated with you.. You can't even acknowledge something horrible when it's staring you in the face, you always try to find your way around it. You're a coward."

This is so breathtakingly unfair that you want to slap him, and yet it strikes at exactly what you are terrified of: that you'd be cast aside and destroyed for simply trying to find the good things in life. Positivity was an enemy in this screwed up world. Maybe you should just go to Battery City. Just take the pills, maybe it'd be easier. Nobody would care. People don't bother to care, as long as it doesn't affect them personally. And by the time they do care, it's too late.

You grit your teeth and say, "Fine. Maybe I'll just go take the fucking pills. If it's so bad, then I'll just take them and be done. I'm sorry I'm such a positive person."

This takes him aback enough that he doesn't have another accusation to level at you, and you continue to work on the bandages. Finally, he says, "What?"

You don't answer, your stomach twisted in knots. He didn't care, he said it himself. You're a coward. It's hard to say what part of this staggers Party the most. As you straighten up, looking at the bandages and feeling satisfied with your work, he repeats, "You'd take the pills."

"Yes."

"Despite that you'd be numb."

"Yes."

He looks at you in disgust, "Maybe I was right, Maybe you are a coward."

You squeeze your eyes shut and clench your fists. For a second, you're almost downright afraid of speaking. You're too angry to pull your punches, especially when your so sick of him, of this, of everything. "Yes, I'm a coward. I don't understand, I have nothing on the line. When I've lost my sister and my mother, my friends and I are on the run, I can't go home because I apparently don't exist and I've been responsible for the death of so many Dracs. You and I are just sitting here, and God knows what the others are facing right now, in a time that doesn't even look like there's a chance for hope! But yes, I forgot. You're the only one of us to ever lose anything."

You're almost in tears, taken with a mortal urge to actually hit him, but you keep your head down and stare at the floor, the silence thundering between you. It feels so good to finally say everything, to lash out at someone, at him, that you could keep going, but you're too raw already, too weary, too wounded to keep wanting to drive the knife into your own heart and twisting, twisting. Why can't he just shut up and be a half-decent person for once. Why can't you just break down in peace. Why isn't Ghoul here. He might know how to comfort you.

The silence goes on until it is almost physically painful. Then Party says, very quietly, "I'm sorry."

You, who was braced for another angry reprisal, was caught completely off guard. You don't want to ask him to repeat it in case you misheard. You sniff instead, smudging your nose with the back of your hand, until most unexpectedly, he touches your chin, lifting your face with his thumb. He looks very tired. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I... I think I've put too much on you. That was my mistake. I just..." He trails off, as if trying to think how to put it. "I thought you could handle it."

"What?" You look up at him, startled. "What do you mean?"

He pauses again, then goes for it. "You're stronger than me, you always have been, but I think I took advantage of it a little too much."

You're speechless, just looking at him. Then you say, "But I'm nothing."

He looks to the side, "You're smart. You should be the leader, you'd be better than me.."

You look at him, trying to read his expression, rubbing both cold hands over your face, trying to come up with any kind of response.  You honestly had no idea how to react, what he said could mean so many different things. You don't know what to do with such depths of trust, even as twisted and badly expressed as they had been.

You sit there, still looking at each other. He appears to be waiting for you to say something, fire back, to shout some more. You fight well, you always have. Especially since, for whatever confounded reason, even when it would make more sense, you have never been afraid of trusting him.

You considers what he means. It could be a trick, him trying to get you to admit something and tease you about it forever. But after everything, you didn't care. He had enough to tease you forever about. So, instead of considering your actions, you lean forward and kiss him.

His breath catches in shock. Your words before have been of the taunting, testing variety, one of you pushing the other's limits. Tenderness had not been much of a feature in your relationship. You cup his face in your hands, turning his head slightly, opening his mouth with your own, able to actually enjoy it, rather than burning through it to part and leave a lingering haunting. He makes a move to raise his hand, and grunts in pain as his bad shoulder catches. He tries it with the other hand instead, knotting it in the loosened hair at the back of your neck, pressing you into him. There was a vast, unspeakable hunger in him, a need to be touched gently, to be seen, to be wanted. No man is an island, you think. But God, Party Poison has been living on one for as long as he humanely can, and chasing away anyone who tries to swim out.

You shift forward onto his lap, trying not to jostle his side, as he moves to give you better purchase, as your knees slide to either side of his hips. He is a very good kisser, the rage that burns permanently in his depths seems to have been, at least for the moment, banked. His mouth is warm and wide and generous, and you utter a small sound into it as you grip his hair, your lips brushing over the fine-cut corner of his own, his jaw, the underside of his chin. His good hand rests low on your back, pulling you solidly against him. His shoulder is starting to bleed again, but he also doesn't appear to care.

Finally, you pull back, flushed and breathless, hands trembling as you reach to tighten the bandage. How long will the others be out, anyway? It would be awkward for them to walk in on you. You feel obliquely ashamed, but not entirely enough to avoid the risk altogether.

His eyes, slightly darker than usual, flick to you. You can feel him trying a little too hard to be nonchalant about the way your arms are almost around him as you mess with the bandage. Then abruptly he says, "The Dracs didn't shoot you, did they?"

"I think I shot them more, actually." You concentrate on the knot; your hands were shaky.

He gives you a crooked smile, "That's my girl."

You have to swallow an unexpected warmth in your stomach, as your cheeks heat faintly pink. You're almost tempted to tell him about the time you got shot, see if his outrage extends to hearing about you being hurt, but you also don't want to prod or grub for his sympathy, your struggle is more important than being a prop for whatever conclusion he would draw from it. Besides, the last thing you need is to give him a reason to want to fight before he's physically ready. You pull the bandage tight over the wound on his side, and can't resist smoothing your own hands across the strong planes of his bare chest. Your eyes lock. It's not only him short of breath.

Slowly, deliberately, you slide forward on his lap, straddling him, until his back is against the wall and you are fully on his lap. Your foreheads touch, breath hot on each other's cheeks, his nose against the side of yours, as he brushes the back of his fingers on the side of your neck, with a gentleness and hesitance he has rarely shown with you. Until now, tenderness is the last thing you would've wanted or expected from each other. Tolerance is understandable. Intimacy, less so.

You trace a finger over his bottom lip, as he sucks lightly on it, and you lean closer, breath catching in your throat as you hitch yourself up against him. You put one hand on his shoulder, then caress from his collarbone down his stomach, sliding under the waistband of his trousers. He shifts with a muffled grunt, holding you back, as he doesn't do well with not being in control of things, of thinking he's lost focus on the mission even for a moment. But you give him a look, reminding him that if he wants this, if he wants you, he plays by your rules right now.

After a moment, he shifts again, granting silent permission, and your fingers continue their downward course. Both of you gulp, mouths open, as you touch him, cupping his smooth hardness in your palm, stroking and circling. He thrusts up into your grip, and swears under his breath as this is evidently uncomfortable for his multiple bullet wounds, and then decides to fuck with it, literally. You can't help grinning into his cheek, keeping a light touch on him, enjoying the weight of him, the solidness. When he seems rather short of breath, you kiss him on the underside of his jaw, nip at his pulse point, and slide slowly down him, as he looks startled. You move to shift his trousers down off his hips, brushing your lips along his solar plexus to stomach, then lower. You nose at the cut of his groin, and then take him in your mouth.

He seems to stop breathing altogether, staring down at you like a man in a dream, as you lick lightly at the tip, then move deliberately up the shaft, sucking slowly and thoroughly. He reaches out to grasp your hair, stops, and then braces himself, almost afraid to move if it would stop this, if you might come to your senses. He lets his head fall back and he moans in pleasure, bucking up into you, as you reach out to take hold of his hips, pushing him back down, intensifying the pace of your slow and deliberate fucking with lips and tongue and teeth and breath, taking your sweet time about it. He whines and you don't relent, finding yourself enjoying the control, the power almost as much as the action itself, the way it feels to have a man like this completely at your mercy. You take him briefly, wetly almost to the hilt, suck fiercely, and drag your lips back down, curling your tongue and flicking him. He whispers something that sounds half like a prayer.

You pull back, shifting onto your knees, turning around and beckoning for him to unbutton the back of your dress. He does, though it takes slightly longer with one good hand, and you let it slide off your shoulders, revealing your bra beneath. You wrap your hands around his head, pulling him toward you as he presses kisses into your cleavage, worshiping your breasts and shoulders and collarbone and throat, having clearly had enough of letting you have the upper hand. He swings you around beneath him, grimacing as blood shows on his bandages, and you stop kissing frenziedly long enough for you to whisper, "Your shoulder-"

"Shut up," He says into your mouth, getting a hand between your legs (hopefully his good one, but you're not sure he'd notice at this point if it wasn't) both of you gasping as he finds your wetness, teasing at you with a thumb but not quite slipping into you. He toys at your clit, then all at once, enters you with two fingers, building a gentle but relentless rhythm as you arch your hips, desperate for the friction as he rubs and rouses you. He moves faster, and it's your turn to whine, pulling at him, starving for his mouth, but he won't let you kiss him. "My rules now."

"You're such an asshole," You manage, conscious of how true this is in just about any aspect of his life. You jerk at him, well aware that this is payback, as he shifts his weight, braces himself on one arm, and slides his hand out of you. Then he rucks up your  
skirts around your knees, glances at you, and when you give him a breathless little nod, plunges into you hard and fast.

You practically see stars. Oh god, it feels so good that your entire body clenches around him. He doesn't move right away. Taking it in, considering it, before he finally starts with lighter, shallower thrusts. Your head tips back, hair spilling in shining blue locks over the old wood floors, his knee riding along your hip as he changes the angle. You clutch at him wantingly. You can feel the strain and strength of his strokes, the rasping against her, the hunger. You were ascending, unmade. And the rubbing of his dirty white skinny jeans against your skin just made it better.

After everything, it didn't take long for either of you, and he pulls you half upright as he rides one final, heavy thrust into you, both of you gasping and heaving, and shuddering and burning and blazing in the heat of climax. The bandage on his shoulder was half off. He really might kill himself one of these days. And yet perhaps if he died like this, he might not even care.

**Author's Note:**

> Second ever smut, how'd I do? Sorry it's so long, I had to make up for the time I haven't been writing.


End file.
